


The Day Before

by SueB



Category: The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:34:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23019385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SueB/pseuds/SueB
Summary: A short story looking at what each member of the Seven was doing the day before the events of "Ghosts of the Confederacy". Complete.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	The Day Before

The morning sun had just slid over the eastern horizon as the lone, black-clad horseman topped the rise and stopped, casting a long shadow in the orange light. Below him stretched a small, half-dead frontier town, just like every other small, half-dead frontier town he had called home lately. There was nothing even remotely attractive or inviting about the place; even from his remote perch, the gunslinger could see that half of the buildings were boarded up. The town gave every appearance of being the sort of place a man went to to die a lonely death.

Which suited Chris Larabee just fine.

He shifted slightly in his saddle as he dug in his pocket for a cheroot, his green eyes appraising the latest in a long line of nameless, faceless stopping places on the road to...where? Chris laughed to himself silently, the lines in his handsome face crinkling with wry amusement as he smoothly slid the cheroot between his lips. It didn't matter where he was going anymore, and it hadn't for three years.

His dark horse, Valor, stomped a little and shook its mane, blowing in the cool morning air, but its master refused to move just yet, content to sit and study this new town. He'd have to be careful, find out who was around before he got too settled; he'd hate to run into anyone who bore him a grudge and might be intent on disturbing his drinking. A few quiet questions here and there would let him know whether this would be a suitable place to rest for a while. Then, as always, he would move on.

It would be a miracle, Chris decided as he spurred Valor forward down the gentle slope leading into town, if he didn't find at least one person to avoid while here. He'd made plenty of enemies during his hell-raising days, when it didn't matter to him who he shot or how much he drank, as long as the blood and the whiskey continued to flow. He hadn't cared then; the brutality he had witnessed during the war had convinced him that man was a vicious animal not worth caring about, and he had found the momentum of excitement and bloodshed too enticing to leave when the war ended. So he had taken it with him, leaving a rail of broken jaws and empty bottles from Indiana to the territory.

As Valor skillfully negotiated the rocky hill, Chris allowed his mind to fly back to those wild days, of endless fighting and binges and brawls too numerous to count. God, that was something, it was just him and Buck tearing up the land, of course Buck had tried to hold Chris back just a little, but he'd get distracted by a pretty face and leave Chris to his own devices. And wind up having to bail him out or stitch him up when all was said and done. That had been a hell of a time, and he'd probably be dead right now if he hadn't met-

Chris tensed up; oh hell, he chastised himself as the familiar grief flooded through his soul, why did he have to go and think of her again. He could've at least waited until he reached town and was within easy reach of a whiskey bottle, so he could drink himself into welcome oblivion and forget again. But now here he was, caught in the desert, and she was there again too, her soft voice, her fragrant hair, her laughing eyes, all dancing just outside of his grasp and driving him mad with frustration. She was there, and their little boy too, calling for him and reaching out for one final embrace.

Chris closed his eyes and rubbed his face furiously, desperately trying to stop his mind from going where it always did, knowing his attempts would be futile and raging inside at their futility. His wife and son lingered for one final moment, then dissolved, as he knew they would, into more agonizing memories, of smoke and fire, he and Buck returning from Mexico to find his house destroyed and his wife and son barely recognizable in the charred ruins of his home and life. Then it had been anger, and drinking, Buck finally having enough and riding away-to where, Chris could only guess, and tried not to care.

He blinked and opened his eyes; he hadn't realized that his horse had stopped, but they were standing still just outside of town. He shook his head and wiped his face, the familiar anger rising within him, at himself, at fate, at God, at life in general. For a moment he sat staring at the dreary little town, its dull buildings and dusty street, one more place to get drunk and pass out in. First he'd find a room, then the saloon, and alternate between the two until it became time to once more move on.

He sighed as he spurred Valor forward; she'd hate to see what he'd come to, but he'd stopped believing long ago that anyone knew or cared what happened to him. It hadn't been like before, this time he'd tried to stay out of fights and had even found work here and there, hiring his gun out to make money for supplies and whiskey, and was gratified that he had earned a reputation as a dangerous man-it kept people away and prevented needless and painful prying. But none of it mattered, as much as he wanted it to; he had pretty much resigned himself to the fact that nothing would ever truly matter to him again. All he could do was stay alive and keep going.

And hope that someday he might find out where it was he was trying to get to.

  
  


Vin Tanner squinted at the morning sun as he hurried along the dusty back alleys of Four Corners towards the hardware store. He had only been in town for a little less than a week, but he had already learned every little-used thoroughfare in the town, and used them whenever possible. It seemed the best way to stay alive.

The cool morning breeze caught his long golden-brown hair, causing its curls to dance in its caress before drifting along. He shivered and pulled his battered hat down a little lower, remembering the fight he'd had with old man Watson about his hair. Well, the ol' cuss could fire him if he wanted, but Vin was not about to cut it. It would alter his appearance enough from his wanted posters to effect a suitable disguise, but Vin liked to wear his hair long, and he'd lost enough already.

He came up the alleyway beside the store and paused, glancing up and down the street before coming out; but there was no one about, and he chided himself for being so damned jumpy. There was nothing to worry about, he reminded himself as he mounted the creaking wooden sidewalk, if those bounty hunters he'd run into in Phoenix had followed him here they'd have nabbed him by now. Nobody would find him here, Four Corners was about as isolated and decrepit a town as he could've hoped to find. The only folks who came through were those who were either lost or on the run themselves, and with any luck he wouldn't be on the run for much longer.

Vin sighed as he fished for the keys to open up the store, pessimistically wondering how long he'd have to stay in this hole. He certainly wasn't going to find a way to clear his name while working behind the hardware store counter, and the chances were few that Eli Joe, the man who had framed him for murder, was going to happen to come in looking for a paper of thumbtacks. His old life, first as a buffalo hunter and then as a bounty hunter, had bred in him such a love of freedom and the wilderness that the idea of spending any amount of time trapped within the four walls of civilization tempted him to madness. But he needed a place to rest, and plan. And hide.

He gritted his teeth against that thought as he tried to work the key into the rusty lock, jiggling it furiously and cursing its propensity to stick. He hated the idea of hiding, it was cowardly; there were times when he'd almost decided to go back to Tascosa and face them now, just to get it over with. But he knew how that would end, with no one to help him and no proof of his innocence; he'd be hung by nightfall and that would be that. No, he'd tell himself, he'd just have to use the patience he'd learned in the mountains, and from the many Indian tribes he'd befriended, to wait and watch. The time would come.

He lifted his head, glancing at the tantalizing mountains that lay beyond the town's border, vainly battling the old wanderlust which rose inside of him. How he wanted to ride away, back into the embrace of the wilderness he knew and loved, to depend only on his sharpshooting skills and his wits to survive as he had done before. But he'd tried to keep to his old way of life, and they'd found him, more than once; he'd just barely escaped the last time. The $500 bounty on his head had guaranteed that there was no mountain too remote, no prairie too wide, for them to find him. And there was no one to stand between himself and a hangman's noose.

The door opened at last, and Vin reluctantly turned his eyes away from the hills and sighed to himself as he opened the door to the hardware store.

He had just tucked away his hat and was tying on his apron when Mr. Virgil Watson came in. The thin old man nodded to his employee as he bustled behind a counter and removed his hat.

"Tanner," he said in a thin, gruff tone.

Vin returned the nod, wary of which mood his boss was in today. "Mornin' Mr. Watson."

"Humph," the other man grunted, looking behind the counter. "Looks like we're gettin' low on the two-inch nails again. All this damned boardin' up that's going' on."

"Filled an order out for them yesterday," Vin replied as he finished tying his apron.

Watson nodded with a muffled grunt, then took a close look at Vin again and sighed.

"Son, what did I tell you about that hair?"

Vin braced himself. "Now, sir, I know you want me to cut it, an' it pains me to go against your wishes after you were kind enough to give me this job-"

But Watson was already waving him off, a look of resignation on his face.

"Aw, forget it, son. It don't matter, just-just keep it clean, all right? I don't need nobody sayin' I got a damn mountain man workin' for me."

Vin blinked; he'd really expected more of a fight. "Yes, sir."

Watson stood still for a moment, then gestured towards the windows.

"Better get them blinds raised. Maybe we'll get at least a few folks in today."

The former tracker peered at his employer as he walked to the window; the old man looked unusually sad and occupied, but Vin had no idea why, and knew better than to pry. Having a few secrets of his own, he had more than a passing respect for the hidden wounds of others.

As he pulled up the blinds, he let his blue eyes roam the street outside of the dirty glass window. Noticing something odd, he looked closer.

"Looks like another place is closin'," he observed, as he saw that the store across the way was freshly boarded up. What was that again? Gideon's, that was it, a general store or something. He turned around, and was surprised to find Mr. Watson standing next to him, staring at the empty store.

"Yep," the old man sighed, shaking his head. "Damn shame, too. Mike an' me, we came out West together, stayed here for twenty years, but last week he told me he an' his wife just couldn't make it here any more, so they were goin' to San Francisco." He sighed deeply, and Vin wondered at the mistiness in his weathered eyes. "Damn shame."

As he moved away, Vin cast another look out of the window. "Yes, sir."

"Oh, you're lucky, son," Watson said as cheerfully as he could as he unlocked the gun cabinets. "You're still young, you don't know what it's like to have to leave a place you've grown fond of, that's been your home for practically your whole life. An' God willin', you won't never know. It's like losin' a part of your soul."

Vin thought of the mountains, but tried not to let it show on his face.

"Ah, hell," Watson coughed, trying to smile, "enough of this. See if anything else needs ordering, I'm going to get the cash ready."

He hurried back to where the money was kept, as if eager to be out of Vin's sight for just a moment. The young man watched him go, trying to fight down the melancholy feeling which threatened to overwhelm him. At least the Gideons had each other, and a destination to their travels. All Vin had was his gun and a seemingly endless road before him. If he stopped, he'd die; but if he didn't stop, he'd die, too. There was only so much running he could endure, but as long as he was alone there was little else he could do. Except wait, and watch, and hope that someday he'd find a way to clear his name.

He ran a hand through his hair and went to work.

  
  


The morning coolness soon gave way to the familiar heat of the Western desert. By noon the gentle orange light had grown into a merciless blazing whiteness which scorched man and beast alike. The heat was hard enough to bear in the small frontier towns, but to the lone man struggling with his load in the lonely mission ruins far from civilization, the burden was doubly difficult. He bore not only the heat of the sun, but the heat of his own hell as well.

Josiah Sanchez paused in his labors, wiping his broad brow as he sat his huge frame on a rock for a moment's rest. He surveyed his work with calm blue eyes, appraising his progress; the remnants of the old mission wall was beginning to regain its shape, despite the hodgepodge of rocks he was using to recreate its form. For the thousandth time his blue eyes studied the old shell, its crumbling walls almost falling down, forgotten, in the careless desert sun. But if Josiah was successful, it would rise again.

The only thing he had to figure out was why.

He rubbed his muscular arm, trying to relieve its soreness as he reached for the nearby bucket of water. Lifting the battered dipper from its resting place, he drank sloppily from its rough bowl, poured the remaining water over his head to cool his burning skin. Only a few moment's rest, he promised himself, and then it would be back to work.

The question of why continued to beat against his brain, but Josiah chuckled at its insistence for an answer; he knew that none would be coming for a long time, if ever, but was still amused at its persistence. Why bother with this, it asked him, it's just an old church, even if you succeed in rebuilding it nobody will care or come. You're wasting your time and effort, get out of here, back to those who need you, where you can do some good.

Josiah snorted at that; good was something he had lost acquaintance with long ago, if he ever knew it to begin with. He thought he had known what it was, watching his father preach the fear of God into people; then later, doing the Lord's work himself, railing against Satan and all the fires of Hell, relying on the Bible and his father's instruction to show him the way to peace. He had used his hands to cradle the newly baptized and comfort the dying, to hold the Bible and pound its message home. Then came the questions, and arguments with his father, the casting out, and he was on his own. It had been fine at first; he had been young, and headstrong, eager to see the world and find his place in it, maybe just to prove to his father how wrong he was about everything.

Now he felt old, and tired, and his father-and God, it seemed-were gone. Only the anger remained.

He wiped is face quickly and got up again, eager to get back to work. As he walked back to the pile of rocks which stood outside of the ruins, he tried to turn his concentration fully to the task at hand. He didn't want to think, didn't want to remember why he was here, baking in the sun, apart from man and God. But as his dusty hands closed around the rough, hot rock on the top of the pile, the memories came back anyway, of his hands closing in anger, of men falling, and blood, and too many lives sent from earth too soon.

By these same hands. His hands.

Begone from my sight, for thou hast displeased me.

He looked down at the unyielding stone in his grip, felt his fingers tighten around its coarse edges as he fought back the ghosts of his past. That was over with, he told himself firmly; he had acknowledged his sin and was seeking forgiveness for it, even if he wasn't sure there was anyone powerful enough to forgive him. He lugged the stone over to the wall and slammed it into place, gritting his teeth at the loud noise produced as stone met stone. He straightened, drew a breath, and wiped his damp forehead as he examined his work.

It was true, nobody would probably ever know what he was doing out here. He could spend the rest of his life in this wilderness, completing a task which would benefit no one, maybe even die here. Would that be enough, father? he wondered as he turned his glistening face to the sky. Would that satisfy you? Or is there something else you want me to do?

No answer came; he didn't really expect one, and hadn't for a long time. Josiah stuffed the soiled bandanna back into his pocket and walked slowly back to the rock pile. glad at least that the grim memories had receded once more. He bent over and grasped another rock, feeling its rough, gritty texture and hefting it with determination back towards the ruined church; it might be that no one would know about his efforts but himself, but that was just fine. He was the only one who had to know, really, and he would stay here and do his penance until the time came to end it, whether that time was years from now, or tomorrow.

And would he find peace then?

SLAM! went the rock as he dropped it into place.

He stood for a moment, then laughed to himself.

God only knows. And He ain't tellin'.

He turned and went to get another stone.

  
  


The train station in Ridge City was a lot more crowded than JD Dunne had planned on. And dirtier. And noisier.

And he was loving every minute of it.

As the young, black-haired man pushed through the swirling throng to get his luggage, his bright hazel eyes drank in every sight around him, marveling at the wonderful excitement of it all. He'd been in big cities before, of course-they didn't come much bigger than Boston or Chicago, both of whose trains stations he had had to push his way through during his journey West. And they had both been more crowded, noisier, and dirtier than this one. But this one was different, in a glorious, indescribably exciting way.

It was in the West. And that meant he was, too. His dream was coming true, right before his eyes, and Boston and Chicago melted away as mere inconsequential notions.

I'm almost there, mama, he thought, and smiled. She'd be so proud. Mad, maybe, but proud.

As he coursed through the crowd, he began to feel very conspicuous as he noticed how everyone else was dressed. There were businessmen in fine suits, and ranchers in worn calico, and cowboys in dusty leather; nobody was wearing a three-piece suit like his, and he wondered if anyone was staring. But at least he did see several hats like the bowler he was wearing over his thick black hair. They were mostly the well-dressed businessmen, too, so he felt at least a little vindicated.

He reached the baggage car and caught his breath, waiting patiently as those ahead of him claimed their possessions. He took the opportunity to look around again, to try and absorb everything he saw. Every nerve felt on fire with excitement as he studied the myriad of people churning around him; it was just like he thought it would be, all hot and loud and full of confusion. but it was a good confusion, the kind born of progress and adventure. And he was going to be part of it, finally.

The street beyond the station was full of all sorts of carts, carriages and wagons; JD watched in fascination as a team of horses raced by drawing a loaded buckboard, with several rowdy cowboys right behind it whooping as they whipped their mounts along. As they all disappeared in a billowing cloud of dust, JD realized he'd stopped breathing, he was so excited.

That's going to be me, he thought. I'm going to be part of this.

"Whatcha got, son?"

He felt a hard tap on his shoulder and turned to see the baggage master eying him with impatience.

"Oh-uh, sorry," the young man stuttered, thinking how foolish he must look. But how could anyone get jaded by all this? "The name's Dunne, JD Dunne."

The weary man nodded wordlessly, ducked back into the car, then stuck his head out again, a puzzled look on his face. "Dunne?"

JD nodded. "Yep."

The man looked at something just inside the door. "This all you got?"

JD shifted a little. "Uh, yeah. I'm, I'm traveling light."

"Huh. I'll say," the man grunted, then bent out of sight. "Well, here you go."

With that he hauled out a beautifully crafted English riding saddle and plopped it into JD's waiting arms. As the saddle fell into his grasp, JD felt the excitement build in him again; he was going to ride in the West.

He looked up with a smile as he hoisted the saddle onto his shoulder. "Thanks!"

But the baggage master only nodded. "Yeah, yeah. Name, mister?"

JD hurried away; now he really felt ridiculous, carrying this saddle around, but he wasn't about to come out West without a saddle. Especially this one.

It might've happened yesterday, the memory was so vivid; but he knew it was months ago, the last Christmas he and his mother has spent together. He felt his eyes grow hot at the memory as he walked towards the coach station, his excitement tempered by the still-fresh grief twisting his stomach. She really shouldn't have spent the money on a saddle for him, his old one was fine, and they could've used the money for medicine to help her live, God, just a little longer.

Even in the noisy train station he could still hear her quiet voice, Merry Christmas, JD. Then he'd said, God, mama, it's beautiful, just like Mr. Winthrop's. I knew you'd like it, JD, she'd said as she hugged him, I know the other boys in the stable tease you, but you can show them now. My boy's better than all of them.

He paused; the saddle was heavy and he was more worn out by the train trip than he'd thought. An empty bench nearby beckoned; he sat down, setting the saddle carefully beside him, and took his hat off to let the warm breeze cool his head. How did she know they teased him, he wondered, his eyes no longer seeing the exciting carnival before him. Did she know they laughed at him for having no father, for having a mother who was a chambermaid? God, he hoped not, but she must've suspected when he'd come to their room all bruised and black-eyed from fighting. He knew she hated for him to do that, but he couldn't let them get away with saying what they did. It just wasn't right, and someone had to stop it.

He sniffed, looking around as he wiped his nose on his sleeve. Nobody but him had cared when she died, there had only been a small funeral with a few of her friends from the mansion and a token word of sympathy from the master which had no true feeling behind it. All she could leave him was the money, a pitifully small amount too meager to get him into even the cheapest college. Another dream denied.

He coughed to clear his throat and straightened his vest, trying to compose himself; at least she didn't know he didn't go to college like she'd wanted. Or maybe she did know, and was mad. Could people get mad in Heaven? Well, he thought as he looked around, coming back to himself, you'll see, mama, I'll make you proud. You said you wanted me to be happy, and I'm sorry, mama, but college won't do that.

But this will. Oh, God, this will.

He took a deep breath and stood up, hoisting his saddle on his shoulder again as he walked towards the ticket window for the Butterfield Stage. He'd missed the one for today; guess he'd have to get a room for tonight and leave tomorrow for...JD scanned the names of big cities and small towns, looking for one which struck his fancy. He didn't care where he was going, as long as it was wild and free. A place where he could ride and shoot, and find adventure, and make a name for himself, like Bat Masterson, and show them all.

You'll see, mama, he thought as he chose a name and dug in his pocket for the dwindling wad of cash. I'm going to do you proud.

For both of us.

  
  


The midafternoon sun beat hot on the frontier town as it sat, quiet and isolated in the desert; random winds gusted gritty clouds of sand across the rugged, barren terrain and ate slowly at the wooden structures. Despite its location, the town gave every appearance of being one of the more prosperous communities; a white church spire reached into the blue sky, and somewhere in the distance a clock struck the hour of three. Farther into town the scene might have been livelier, but on the outskirts the only signs of life were the occasional lizard or scorpion skittering over the baking rocks, and the small party of horsemen slowly riding out of town.

There were four of them, all silent as they rode along, their eyes focused on the yellow sand and distant mountains before them. Three of the men wore grim-faced expressions, long, murderous-looking rifles held in their dirty hands. Their clothing was rough and coated with the dirt and residue of the frontier; one of their party, an older, somewhat grizzled specimen, wore a silver star which blinked from time to time from behind his lapel.

The appearance of the fourth member of the group was distinctly at variance with his fellow riders; his dusty red coat and finely-tailored clothes marked him as a man of style and taste, and his pale green eyes danced with amusement at the situation, as if he were so used to it that he could afford to laugh. His attire also differed in that his wrists were locked in handcuffs, and his horse was being led by the man wearing the star.

Finally the man leading the prisoner's horse looked around and said, "OK, I think this is far enough."

They all stopped; the town now lay some distance away. The prisoner's horse stood before the other three men, and he waited calmly for the procedure to begin, a slightly bored expression on his face as he crossed his handcuffed wrists across his saddle horn.

"All right then," the sheriff said, digging a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolding it as he cleared his throat. "Ezra Standish, you have been found guilty of defrauding one Mr. Walter Westcott out of a sum of $45 and creating a public disturbance in the town of Sweet Water. By the authority vested in me by the United States Government, I hereby order you to depart this town permanently, and not to return on pain of incarceration." He finished, folded up the paper, and nodded to the second man. "OK, get the handcuffs an' get him the hell out of here."

"A stirring oration, sir," Ezra noted as he held his hands out to be unchained, his sarcasm mellowed by the musical Southern tone in his voice.

"Oh, shut up," the sheriff snapped, ignoring Ezra's wide mocking smile. "You just thank your lucky stars we didn't let my brother kill you."

The man who was unlocking the handcuffs chuckled. "Dumbest thing I ever saw, tryin' to cheat the mayor."

The handcuffs came off, and the gambler rubbed his wrists a bit as the third man came forward carrying a gunbelt, which he handed to the prisoner. The sheriff eyed the man with disgust and shook his head.

"Goddamn penny-ante gamblers stirrin' up trouble an' takin' the money of honest folk, " he muttered. "You're a disgrace to the people who're trying to build something out here."

The gambler did not seem insulted by these words, but looked at the sheriff with a wry, amused expression, as if he had heard such epithets so often that they had ceased to have any affect on him.

"The last time I looked, sir," Ezra replied as he buckled on his gunbelt, "this was a free country, and I don't recall anyone holding a gun to Mr. Westcott's head to force him to accept my challenge to a game of chance."

His adversary scowled. "Yeah, well you just remember this, Standish-come back here again an' we'll lock you up before you can get them damn shaved cards of yours out of that fancy coat. Got it?"

Ezra gathered up his reins and gave the man a polite nod. "I assure you, my friend, that my travels will never bring me to your bustling metropolis again."

"Well, see they don't," was the gruff answer. The sheriff pointed out in the direction of the mountains. "There's Ridge City, Four Corners, an' a few other places out over them hills. You can haul your worthless hide there. Get going."

Ezra glanced back at the desert behind him, then at the three rifle-bearing lawmen. With a small smile and a tip of his flat-crowned black hat, he gracefully turned his horse around and began to ride away.

"Stay here til he's over the ridge," the sheriff ordered the third man as he and the deputy turned to ride back into town. "I'd better go make sure Walt's all right. That damn Southron gave him quite a shiner."

"Bet we read about his hangin' someday," the deputy remarked as he spurred his horse along. The sheriff chuckled.

"Dang, Bob, you know I don't make sucker bets like that. But even if he did swing I doubt we'd hear about it. Who's gonna care if another piece of scum gets what he deserves?"

Behind them, Ezra had already made some headway into the hills. He squinted up at the blazing sun; damn beastly weather to ride in, but it did beat sitting in a jail cell, or hanging at the end of a rope. He sighed and settled in for the ride, not dwelling on the fact that he was once more drifting along, alone under the Western sky. It had always been this way, and he preferred it; it was easier to spin his conman's web when there were no other strings attached.

He could not help going over what had happened as he rode, even though there had been nothing really remarkable about it. It certainly wasn't the first time he had been caught and kicked out of town, and Sweet Water had been one of his less attractive stops. He'd gotten quite used to it, actually, and it never bothered him that he was usually regarded with disgust and suspicion; it was part of the gambling trade, and he had come to expect it.

Oh, well, he thought as he sat up in the saddle and gazed ahead; no point in thinking on that. He turned his thoughts to the towns which lay ahead, and the possibilities they held. With any luck that idiot Westcott wouldn't warn everyone to cast him out, and he could find a place where no one knew him. The familiar thrill touched his nerves, the excitement of a new town, and new opponents to face, the eager anticipation of the unknown. He relished the idea of finding a new place to ply his trade; the West seemed to be filled with small towns and their none-too-bright occupants, just begging to be conned. And who was he to deny his talents and turn his back on such a golden opportunity?

A smile touched his lips as he thought of his last arrest; just his luck that the mayor's sister had to be one of those damn reformers, eager to win Ezra's soul back from the evils of the green tables and the confidence tricks. He'd escaped a jail cell, but nothing prevented her from lecturing him as they waited to ride out of town. But to all of her dire warnings and entreaties Ezra could only turn a polite smile and a deaf ear. He didn't need her to tell him of the immoralities of his calling; what she had failed to provide was an alternative attractive enough to woo him away from it, and nothing came to his mind which would succeed in that. It was the only life he knew, and he loved it; who cared if it was right or wrong? He could worry about morality once he was rich.

His stomach growled. He sighed as he reached back to dig around in his saddle bag for something to eat; he'd simply have to get back on a winning streak. Both the money and the food were running low, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain his professional appearance. He could dip into the wad of money tucked in his boot, but his ambition reeled at the thought; that money was for the saloon he intended to buy someday, and nothing short of death's door would induce him to give up the only hope of security he had. Even if it remained just an elusive dream.

His supple fingers closed around an apple; he pulled it out and began to munch on it, his clear green eyes thoughtful as he rode along. Somewhere out there, he thought as he ate, was the treasure he was looking for, and he was either going to find it or die trying. But he had no intention of dying, unless it was as an old, wealthy, happy man.

He continued to ride along, his mind deftly spinning new ways to further his quest; finally he finished the apple, tossed the core away, and kept riding, eager to find out what opportunity lay over the next horizon.

  
  


The Four Corners saloon was in a loud, boisterous mood that evening, as ranchers, cowboys and the local folk made their way into its red-papered walls to relax, play cards and drink themselves into blissful oblivion. The crowd swirled in and out of the doors, ignored by the patrons inside for the most part; so no one noticed the handsome, mustached gunslinger who paused in the doorway before he came in, a wide smile on his cheerful face as he surveyed the scene.

After waiting for a moment, the man came inside, his blue eyes dancing among the various saloon girls working their way through the boozy throng. He caught the eye of several of them as he strode into the saloon; they all eyed his lean figure and rugged good looks with eagerness, and he gave them a white-toothed smile which sent them positively reeling. As he walked to the bar he felt his spirits rise; this was going to be a fun town.

The bartender nodded to him as he leaned up to the counter.

"What'll it be, mister?"

"Just a whiskey to start, friend," was the congenial reply as he looked around. "I might be buggin' you for some champagne later on."

The bartender chuckled as he filled the shot glass. "Whiskey's cheaper. New in town, huh?"

The other man nodded as he shilled out a few coins for the drink. "Yup. Just came off a cattle drive from up north, been ridin' all day. So I'm mighty thirsty, an it ain't for just whiskey if y'know what I mean."

With a wink he gulped the liquor down. The bartender gave a knowing smile, then wandered off to another customer, leaving the new arrival to fend for himself.

The man leaned on the bar for a moment, studying the room, trying to decide which girl to go with tonight. He'd been dreaming about this for a long time, the cattle drive had been lengthy and difficult, the stops few and far between. He hadn't liked the men he worked with much, either, but a dollar was a dollar, and he couldn't turn down the work. It had kept him busy, and moving, and there were times when it had been fun. But it was over now; time for some fun, then, a new search for something else to do.

His gaze fell on a woman seated alone at the end of the bar, and his brow creased with concern. She was blonde and attractive, slightly stout, and clad in respectable, middle-class clothing; it was highly unusual to see such a woman in a saloon, let alone all by herself. On top of that, she looked troubled, or maybe just lonely, and he decided that he just couldn't let her sit there by herself, looking all pretty and sad.

He also couldn't deny that he found her remarkably attractive.

He walked up to her slowly, careful not to appear intrusive. When she noticed him, he smiled gently and tugged at the brim of his dusty tan hat.

"Hey there, darlin'," he said softly in a pleasant, easy drawl. "Mind some company tonight?"

Her brown eyes looked him over, and she smiled a bit as she shrugged. "Suit yourself, mister."

He'd noticed the spark in her eyes when she saw him, and felt fairly confident as he slid next to her and folded his hands.

"Y'know," he said in a conversational tone, looking away, "I was just standin' over there wonderin' why a pretty gal like yourself was lookin' like her heart was gonna bust." He turned his eyes back to her, a friendly smile beneath his jet-black mustache. "You wanna tell ol' Buck what's wrong?"

She glanced at him, sighing as she idly ran her slender fingers along the rim of her empty glass. "Oh, I guess I'm just missin' my Billy."

Buck deflated. Damn, he thought, she's taken. But he smiled gamely; he could be a friend to her, at least until an available girl came along.

"Well," he said, clearing his throat as he folded his hands and leaned forward on the polished mahogany counter, "I'm real sorry to hear to hear that, ma'am. He your husband?"

She laughed a little. "No, mister, we ain't married. We was going to be, but then he got sent to Yuma Prison."

Buck felt his spirits rise again, just a little.

"Yeah," she sighed, shaking her head, her tightly curled blonde hair dancing in the smoky light. "I got a letter from him t'other day, an' since then all I can think of is how lonely I am."

Buck nodded sympathetically. "Yep."

She turned her brown eyes to him. "I mean-REALLY lonely."

There was no mistaking the message in those eyes, and Buck felt himself fighting a smile.

"Well now, ma'am-"

"Oh, please," she insisted, still staring into his eyes, "call me Blossom."

"Awright, Blossom," he continued, suddenly feeling very warm, "my heart's just breakin' over your sad predicament, Miss Blossom. Ain't there somethin' I could do to ease your sorrowful sufferin'?"

Her sorrowful suffering vanished completely behind a slow, bright smile. "Buck, honey, I thought you'd never ask."

So before long Buck found himself in Blossom's bedroom, thoroughly enjoying himself for the first time since leaving on the cattle drive. As they lay together in the soft yellow lamplight, she let her graceful hands wander over his smooth, muscular chest, his tan arms, and marveled at the assortment of scars which marked the passage of a hard, exciting life.

"My goodness, Buck," she purred, as her delicate fingers traced a circular scar in his left arm. "Where'd that one come from?"

He smiled at her as he propped himself up on one elbow. "That, darlin', came from Gettysburg, thanks to a Johnny Reb."

She gasped, impressed. "No! You was there?"

"Yup," he said proudly. "Course I was just a kid, but I'll never forget it."

"Oooh," she said, her eyes sparkling in the lamplight as she caressed the ancient wound. "How'd it happen?"

He turned his eyes up to the ceiling as he took her in his arms; they lay back in bed together as he tried to remember. "Well, our regiment was on this place called Culp's Hill-us an' the other boys of the 27th Indiana, we went smack up against a bunch of Rebs." he shook his head, sobered by the memory. "Half of us didn't come back, an' if it wasn't for Chris I wouldn't have either."

She looked at him. "Chris? He a friend of yours?"

"Aw, hell yeah," Buck said, staring at the ceiling as he put one arm behind his head. "Me an' Chris went through the whole war together, saved each other's asses too many times to count."

"Hmm," she replied. concerned by her partner's pensive face. "Did he come into town with you?"

Buck laughed a little bitterly and shook his head. "Naw, I ain't seen Chris in years. He an' me, we kinda parted company a while back. Went our own ways, y'see."

"Oooh," she said again, this time in sympathy. "That's too bad."

"Yeah," Buck sighed absently, still staring at the ceiling, his eyes looking across the years. "But I don't blame him for movin' on. He had a lot to move on from, an' I ain't sure he'll ever stop."

He said nothing more, his face becoming soft and reflective in the flickering golden light. She made a small, sympathetic noise and caressed his face, trying to soothe him, until he took his eyes from the ceiling and the past and looked at her. After a few moments a smile slowly split his face, and he took her into his arms again, the sadness forgotten as they melted into each other once more.

  
  


The streets were dark and almost deserted as the small band of trail herders rode through, their mounts pounding towards the end of town in a cloud of choking dust. One of the men, an old, gaunt cowboy, reeled dangerously in the saddle and cursed his compatriots, his pleas to slow down ignored.

Finally they reached their destination, a gray three-story boarding house flanked by a set of rickety-looking wooden stairs. The group stopped and gathered by the foot of the staircase, waiting while the old man was taken from his horse. One of his pants legs bore a bloody, gaping hole, and the skin beneath it was swathed in a dirty, soiled bandage.

One of the men, a dark-haired rider with piercing black eyes, looked at the building suspiciously. "What'd the bartender say?"

"Third floor," came the reply from one of the men supporting the old man. The first man swore, spat, then motioned to his comrades.

"All right, then. C'mon, dammit."

They all mounted the stairs, most of the men going slowly while the black-haired man went ahead, going up the flights two steps at a time. He searched the darkened windows, found the door he was looking for, and pounded on it with little grace.

"Hey!" he cried. "Got a sick man here!"

There was a pause, then a slight scuffling noise from behind the door, which was soon opened to reveal a handsome young black man.

"Yeah? What's the problem?' he said expectantly, peering around the doorjamb to see if the injured party was behind his visitor.

But the black-haired man only glared at him. "Get the doctor, boy."

The other man didn't move. "Name's Nathan Jackson, an' if you want me to look at your friend, I suggest you cut the ‘boy' stuff."

This took the black-haired man completely aback, and he gaped at him. "You're the doctor?"

Nathan quickly shook his head. "Ain't no doctor, just know somethin' about healin'. An' if you got a problem with that, just lemme know so's you can leave an' I can get back to my book."

The other men arrived, half-dragging the pale, groaning old man between them.

"He's real sick, Jack," one of them said nervously. The dark-haired man eyed the patient's clammy face, bit his lip, then turned threatening eyes to Nathan.

"All right, go ahead," he growled, "but he better not die, got it?"

"That darky's the doctor?" one of the other men gasped.

"I don't think Mr. Fallon'd like this," another piped up, a bit nervously.

Nathan studied the ailing man's face. "If you don't get him in here quick, he ain't gonna be mindin' much of anything for long."

"C'mon, get him in there," Jack barked pushing them into the small room. "This darky ain't gonna hurt the old man, ‘less he wants to see the end of a rope."

They lugged the sick man inside; as Nathan lit another lamp he gestured to the old iron bed at the far wall. Without another word the men settled the patient onto the well-worn patchwork coverlet.

"What happened to him?" Nathan asked, as he began examining Mr. Fallon, peering under his eyelids and feeling his forehead. The old man was half-conscious and groaned audibly, although it was hard to tell whether his distress was caused by pain or by the fact that Nathan was touching him.

"Got gored in the leg by one of the cows," Jack replied, standing nearby with his hands on his hips, watching the proceedings with distaste. "Was doin' fine til yesterday, then he started burnin' up."

"Hmm," Nathan said, becoming more absorbed in what he was doing and paying less attention to the other men. He glanced at the wounded leg; the gashed cloth was stained with blood and an ugly, ill-smelling brownish substance; the bandage was clearly in desperate need of being changed, its once-white fabric now mottled and soiled.

Nathan bit his lip, straightened and sighed.

"Sounds like gangrene," he said, rubbing the back of his head. "I'll do what I can. You men don't got to stay."

The small group mumbled to each other, then started to move out. Jack was the last to leave, and he looked at Nathan with something less than confidence.

"We'll be back tomorrow," he said with a glare. "He better be alive when we show up, or you'll be practicin' in Hell by sundown, ‘doctor'."

The last word was said in a snide, insulting tone; Nathan could only scowl at him as the man walked out without closing the door behind him. As he went to shut the door, Nathan glanced at the man and pursed his lips. He knew there was little he could do, but if he worked fast enough he could save the man's life, and maybe his own.

Nathan swiftly found his scissors and sliced the man's pants leg away; then, very gently, he cut away the filthy bandage, feeling grateful that the old man had apparently passed out. As he pulled the wrappings away and examined the wound his heart sank; it was definitely gangrene, and it was about the worst he'd ever seen outside of the war. He'd have to move fast.

He moved quickly to his desk and began selecting the necessary bottles from the collection of natural medicines he kept on hand. As Nathan worked he tried to fight down the bitterness which always followed encounters like this, telling himself, calm down, no use in getting riled, they're just ignorant trail herders without a lick of sense. Don't let it get to you.

But it always got to him anyway, because no mater how often it happened he'd never get used to it. Just when he began to feel comfortable living here, someone would would say something, or something would happen, to remind him-as if he needed reminding-that no matter where he went, people only saw his color. He might save the life of every person in town, but there would still be people who'd refuse to shake his hand, because it was black.

He gritted his teeth, trying to concentrate and dispel the anger. After all, he wasn't the only sufferer; there were other blacks in town who had it rough, too. He had no use for self-pity; he figured he'd used up his whole supply as a young slave, then had it burned out of him as a stretcher bearer during the war when he saw men horribly mangled in every conceivable-and inconceivable-manner. How could he look at such suffering and then dare to say he was in pain?

But still, he thought as he took out a pair of scissors and all of the clean bandages he had, still-he had to admit it hurt to try and help people, only to see the doubt in their eyes, the fear. He was so grateful to survive the horrors of slavery and war, so proud of the life he'd built for himself here. But none of it seemed to matter to some of them; they seemed to regard him as a barely trained animal performing circus tricks, instead of a man serving his town in the only way he knew how. He didn't expect equality, or true brotherhood. But a little respect would be nice.

Fallon groaned, and Nathan forced his mind to his task; his hurt pride would mean little if he had to tell those trail herders this man died. Putting his feelings aside, he set to work, knowing that more than one life hung in the balance.

  
  


As the healer worked on through the night, six other men also prepared for the day ahead.

The kid bedded down in the Ridge City hotel and dreamed of gunfights and bad guys.

The preacher sat beneath the stars, solemnly studying their beauty and wondering if anyone was looking back.

The sharpshooter walked the dark, quiet alleys towards his room, his mind alert yet pondering the question if he would ever be truly free again.

The gambler checked into the Four Corners hotel and inquired as to the number and location of the town's saloons.

The scoundrel nestled next to Blossom, forgetting everything but the bliss of the moment.

And the man in black sat awake in his room, staring out the window at the darkness and wondering what could happen tomorrow that could possibly make any sort of difference.


End file.
